


Sick as a Dog

by watts



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Pre-Relationship, lovesick!Clint, shameless fluff, sick!Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 14:40:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watts/pseuds/watts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint is sick; Natasha's bedside manner is dreadful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sick as a Dog

**Author's Note:**

> This comes from a prompt by abeckoningcat over on tumblr: _Clint has a cold, Natasha is taking care of him_. I've been stuck in bed with a cold for two days with no one around to comfort me, so this got ridiculously fluffy in an attempt to make myself feel better. You've been warned!

“Natasha, I'm dying, and you're not even being nice to me!”

“You're not dying, Barton, you have a cold. The only way you're going to die today will be if you keep bugging me; then I'll happily kill you.”

Clint let his head fall back down on his pillow, certain there was an invisible elephant standing on his head judging from the headache he had forming. His throat was sore and the light of the bedside lamp burned his eyes, leaving him squinting. It was the height of summer but he had cocooned himself in his comforter, even though when Natasha had taken his temperate a couple of hours previously it'd been a few degrees higher than he felt comfortable with. His small quarters were littered with tissues and he hadn't even left the room for the past two days, the promise of food from the canteen not even luring him out.

Basically, he was a mess, and Natasha wasn't helping.

“C'mon, Nat, I looked after you the other week, didn't I?” Natasha turned to face him, and even in his addled state of mind he could recognise her death glare easily enough. 

“Okay, one: I did not need you to look after me, I was perfectly fine by myself. Not my fault you insisted on running around me like a crazy person. Two: I did not have a cold, you shot me with a goddamn arrow. The two situations are not comparable in the slightest.”

“You're not still mad at me for that, are you? I did tell you to stop leaping about in my line of sight.”

“I was not leaping about, don't be ridiculous. Aren't you supposed to be the greatest marksman in the world? I would have thought that would preclude you from accidentally shooting your partner.” 

Clint bit back a sarcastic comment as Natasha reached his side, propping him up into a sitting position and rearranging his pillows. She was businesslike as usual, but he appreciated the gesture even if she felt the need to belittle him as she did it. She looked at him closely and wrinkled her nose.

“How long have you been wearing these clothes, Barton?” He looked down at the old t-shirt and sweatpants he had on and struggled to remember the last time he'd changed.

“Erm...”

“You're disgusting.” Natasha whipped his blankets off him and folded her arms. “Shower, now.”

“Nat,” Clint whined, struggling for something to wrap around him, the air too cold as it touched his clammy skin. “I'm sick! Don't wanna shower.” He pouted, hoping to appeal to her softer side.

Please. As if Natasha had a softer side.

“Shower, Barton,” she repeated, taking ahold of his bicep and heaving him out of the bed. His head spun and he stumbled in an attempt to steady himself, glad for Natasha's vice-like grip on him. She marched him through to the bathroom, sitting him on the toilet seat while she turned on the shower, letting the water run for a moment as it heated up. 

“Come on,” she gestured to his clothes. “Off.” Clint's head still hadn't settled and he didn't have the energy to protest to her demands, feeble hands struggling to pull his t-shirt over his head until Natasha's smaller ones took over, throwing the sweaty shirt on the floor and pushing his pants over his hips and towards the floor so that he could step out of them. The small movements necessary wore him out so much he could barely bring himself to care that he was stripped naked in front of Natasha. It wasn't like they hadn't seen each other naked before, stripped of their suits by medics or when sharing cramped spaces during various dubious assignments.

“My very own Nurse Nat,” he joked, his voice catching and sending him into a coughing fit. Natasha patted his back, and although she was clearly trying to be helpful, the force of her palm worsened the tightness in his chest. Clint was so focused on struggling to breathe that he didn't notice Natasha leave the room, slipping back in with a glass and filling it with water from the faucet. 

“Drink, Barton,” she told him, handing him the glass once the worse of the coughing had passed and he could hold it steady without throwing the contents all over himself. He slurped gratefully and smiled at her.

“Knew you cared about me deep down, Tash,” he quipped, his voice hoarse.

“It's the pragmatist in me,” she replied evenly, placing the glass on the counter and ushering him into the shower. “It's easier to keep you alive than find a replacement partner.” Her lips quirked into that tiny smile of hers that made something flip in his stomach, even when his whole body hurt and he was eighty percent certain he'd just coughed up a lung. “Well, sometimes it is.” 

As the warm water ran over his skin Clint grudgingly accepted that Natasha had been right about the shower. He still felt sluggish but the steam around him felt like it was helping his blocked nose and sore throat; he was grateful for that. He glanced back through the translucent shower curtain and saw that Natasha had taken up his spot on the toilet seat, knees drawn up to her chest and eyes on the floor. 

He'd been ragging on her for her bad bedside manner since she'd come in to check on him once her S.H.I.E.L.D duties for the day were finished, but to be honest he was surprised she'd stuck around. They'd known each other for years, and he'd counted her as a friend for nearly as long. She was his best friend now, even more so than Phil, probably, but he'd never expected to see a caring side of her, even hidden behind her normal curt behaviour. He wasn't naïve enough to think she would ever return the feelings that he'd been developing for her recently, but it was nice to see that she cared about him enough to look after him now, even if she insisted on insulting him as she did so. He could deal with her usual abuse if it meant she stayed with him.

His cold was obviously messing with his head, because he was thinking like a sap. He was glad Natasha wasn't looking at him: he didn't doubt that even through the barrier of the shower curtain she could have read his thoughts from his expression in a matter of seconds. 

Clint turned and reached for his shampoo off the ledge under the shower head. As his arm extended his stomach turned and he suddenly felt like he was about to throw up or pass out, or possibly throw up and _then_ pass out. His legs threatened to give out underneath him and he braced himself against the wall with his forearms, head ducked as he tried to clear his vision, spotted with dark circles.

“Clint?” Natasha had obviously been watching him more closely than he'd realised because she was suddenly in front of him, pulling back the shower curtain. “You okay?” 

“'m fine, Tasha,” Clint rasped, squeezing his eyes shut against the nausea churning through him. His partner let out a huff of annoyance and reached past him to shut off the water, thrusting a towel at him.

“Why is it that when you're fine you won't stop moaning at me, Barton, but when you're clearly not okay you insist on pretending?” She was definitely still criticising him, but maybe Clint was hallucinating because he was sure there was a note of affection in her voice as she spoke. “Come on, out you get.” 

Clint was in no position to argue, huddled naked in the corner of the shower with his partner standing in front to him, outstretched arm still holding his towel. His head was still swimming, but he tried to turn towards her without full on flashing her, feeling more than a little embarrassed at the state he was in. He snagged the towel from her hand, his fingers brushing hers as he did so. The feel of her skin, even with his own still flushed with heat from both fever and the hot shower, burned against his and he mentally slapped himself. It wouldn't do to keep reacting like this to every tiny thing that happened between them; they were partners, and spent too much of their time together for him to start acting like a lovesick fool. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts and only succeeding in making himself even more dizzy.

One second he was wrapping the towel around his waist, the next the spots in front of his eyes had swirled to paint the world black.

 

~

 

“Clint. Clint, can you hear me?” Natasha's voice was soft but sounded far away, and he struggled to reach for it. “Hey, wake up, Barton.”

It took all of his effort to open his eyes, but when he did he found himself looking into her green ones, crinkled with concerned. He expected her to smooth her features back into her usual poker face, but instead she gave him that smile of hers again. He couldn't help but return it with a grin of his own. He was so preoccupied with her reaction that it took him a moment to realise he was back in his bed, Natasha knelt beside him on the covers. 

“How...” he looked around them in confusion. “What did you do to me, Nat?”

When she brushed a gentle hand over his cheek instead of punching him, he really started to panic.

“Jesus, Nat, I'm not actually dying, am I? Why are you being so nice?” With that she lightly shoved him, and he figured he probably had a little time left if she wasn't letting him completely get away with it. 

“You fainted, Clint.” He winced, feeling his cheeks flush as he realised she must have had to drag him from the bathroom floor to his bed. 

“And you brought my sorry ass back over here?” She nodded, stroking through his damp hair with her fingers. He let his eyes flutter closed; even if he was dying, if this _was_ how he got to go he'd die a happy man.

“You scared me, Barton.” 

“Mm,” he murmured, not even bothering to try and hide his contentment. He still felt like shit, probably worse than he had an hour ago, but it was definitely worth it to have Natasha show such concern for him. She let out a quiet, breathy laugh at his response, using her nails to scratch gently at his scalp. He was in heaven.

“You need to sleep,” she told him after a few blissful moments, withdrawing her hand. He reached for it with a limp arm, his eyelids still too heavy to open. 

“Stay,” he whined, all too aware of how pathetic he sounded but utterly unable to make himself care by this point. He cursed himself when he felt her move away. “Sorry.”

“It's fine, Clint. I'm here, I'm staying.” His heart leapt in his chest when he felt her pull back the covers, slipping in next to him. When she settled against his shoulder, her hand rubbing slow circles against his chest, he was sure he was dreaming. She hadn't put a t-shirt on him, and the skin on skin contact set off a flock of butterflies in his stomach that was probably only acceptable in teenage girls. 

“I'm gonna get you sick,” he protested. Why, why would he say that? Natasha was lying with him, cuddling him, really, and he was trying to convince her not to. He had no idea what was wrong with him. 

“If I'm going to catch this off you, Clint, I'll already have it,” she told him calmly, “and if I do get sick then you'll just have to look after me, won't you?” He felt the brush of her hair against his cheek as she rested her head against the curve of his neck and tried not to make it too obvious when he inhaled, the fruity smell of her shampoo filling his nostrils. Despite the fact that his arms felt like lead weights next to his sides he curled one around her back, raising the other to touch his hand to her hair. He'd never in a million years imagined he'd get to hold her like this, and even if he still felt sick as a dog he wasn't going to waste a moment of the opportunity. 

“It'll be my pleasure.”


End file.
